One More Chapter (One-shots)
by fxngirling
Summary: One-shots about the MDBC characters. Disclaimer: the MDBC and its content all belong to Heather Vogel Frederick.
1. Chapter 1-It Rains Every Day

These are a collection of one-shots (maybe two or three-parters, if things go well) about the MDBC couples. Thanks for reading! Disclaimer: MDBC and its characters belong to Heather Vogel Frederick.

**One-Shot One: It Rains Every Day**

**Jess's POV**

I stare at the cold, hard ground that's currently being soaked. I rub my eyes, which are red tired from working so hard at Juilliard, and continue walking home. My feet only make a faint whisper on the sidewalk against the rhythmic rain. The world seems grey, like an old movie.

Thinking of old movies reminds of Movie Madness back at Colonial Academy, where all my friends would meet up on Friday nights and watch black-and-white movies with my host parents. I miss all my Colonial Academy friends, like Frankie and Adele and especially Savannah Sinclair. Colonial Academy was my home for four years, and I miss it terribly.

Home is where the heart is, they say, but mine is lonely and desolate. It's a small apartment far off campus. I guess I wanted a change of pace from Colonial Academy's boarding-school style, but I realize what a stupid mistake that was. These days, I have to take the bus home when my classes are over, but I missed _my_ bus because I stopped to ask Professor Relz about my grade.

I'm majoring in math, because I want to be a teacher someday. Teaching at college, high school, or any school would be great, but I'm still a freshman, so I still have a really long way to go, especially with teachers like Professor Relz.

Professor Relz is the coldest, hardest person I've even dealt with. Her stony blue eyes remind me of Mrs. Chadwick's, but hers are more like frozen metal. At least Mrs. Chadwick was nice once you got to know her. Professor Harriet Relz is always stiff and angry, and snapped at me when I asked about the grade I got on my test.

She gave me a sixty on my test, but she marked at least twenty-five points off for errors I didn't even make. I began to ask if my grade could be changed, since my average was down to a low B with the test grade, but Professor Relz said she was busy and that I could wait.

I sat down on one of her classroom chairs, covered with filth like graffiti (seriously, who trash talks a teacher on a _chair_?) and politely waited for about ten minutes. My bus was going to be leaving soon, and I wanted an early ride home, so I started pacing. Not a lot, just a bit, but enough for Professor Relz to notice. She yelled at me to get out because, according to the Juilliard student handbook, "students must treat all professors and fellow students with the utmost respect" and I had dishonored that through pacing. Pacing! Honestly, that woman is like a reincarnation of the Battleaxe, Mrs. Adler.

I left the classroom after a five-minute-long lecture about respect and modern kids and I'd just missed my bus by a few minutes. Waiting for my bus made me nervous, and I came to realize that it wasn't coming when it was fifteen minutes late. Note that I had been outside in the rain for all those minutes, patiently hoping for transportation that wasn't coming.

Apparently, from a call to the bus station, afternoon buses had been canceled because of the bad weather. That meant that I had no ride home and that I would have to walk for at least an hour. In a rainstorm, too.

So, that's how I got here: on a soaking sidewalk, drenched with rain and trying to get home, which is fairly difficult without a car. I do have a car, but it's in the shop because somebody else ruined the left taillight and part of the bumper. Thankfully, I don't have to pay. That would just be one more thing to add to my long list of burdens.

A silver 2010 Lexus IS drives next to me, and I can't help thinking, _Darcy's car._ Another thing about attending Juilliard while he's at Dartmouth is that we're not together. Of course, we haven't been together since I was a senior at Colonial. He was already at college, and everything began to fall apart. I broke up with him that December. It was my first Christmas without him.

I still miss him, like I have been for the past year. There's nobody out there like Darcy. Of course, I know that he's probably having the time of his life up at Dartmouth, and that he's long since forgotten and moved on. Darcy adored me when we were dating, but I honestly don't think there's anything special about me.

A lone raindrop falls and falls onto my jacket. It trickles down and onto my arm. Angrily, I swipe away at it, like it's the reason Darcy and I broke up. Darcy and I broke up. Darcy and I broke up. _Darcy and I broke up._ It took me forever to comprehend later; it felt like I had stepped into freezing water and I had no intention of leaving. He's not mine anymore. The cold realization is still painful to admit.

The Lexus is still driving alongside me, and I feel a chill go up my spine. Instead of feeling numb, I just feel electrified right now. Forcing myself to keep walking, I take a U-Turn and see if the driver is following me or if it's just a coincidence.

The Lexus turns around. I am internally screaming, but I don't let anything show. What do you do when a creepy car, which happens to looks exactly like the one your ex-boyfriend has, starts following you? We never covered this in drivers' ed.

I reach up to release my still-thick braid, hoping that this will help him my face, and the blonde hair piles around my shoulders. Yes, I still wear my hair like that. I think of it as an apology to Darcy. An apology for everything I did to him. I miss him.

Speaking of Darcy, I begin inspecting the car that looks just like his. It even looks familiar. Same long grey scratch on the right side that Darcy made when he was parking. The front bumper has the exact dent that I made in my junior year of high school when I hit a tree. Surprisingly, Darcy wasn't even mad that his car was damaged. He was just glad that I was okay. Now that I look back on it, maybe it wasn't that surprising.

The Lexus stops with a halt, but I can't see the driver because the car is on the left of me. That means that the driver is on the farther side. I can see that he or she doesn't have anybody in the passenger or back seat, and I hope that this is a good thing.

I'm too afraid to move. The street is empty. People are probably all at home because of the rainstorm. I can hear my heart beating quickly and loudly. Quickly, I turn so that I'm facing a store instead of the road. I tuck my hair behind my left ear, and the charm bracelet from the Christmas of my sophomore year jingles.

I cringe and hope it's not too loud. My level of anxiety skyrockets as I hear the slam of a car door. When I turn to run away, the person reaches out and touches my arm.

I hear a loud sigh. I hear myself sigh as well. I hear the shuffle of my feet as I turn around to face the stranger. I hear my gasp as I nearly drop my books and schoolwork. I hear his voice, a long, deep strong voice like rushing water from a fountain. I hear my utter surprise. I hear his voice, which sounds like soft chocolate brown eyes and curly brown hair tousled just right.

I hear him awkwardly pace around. I hear the pound of feet on the ground, like the footsteps of somebody's who's six feet and two and a half inches tall.

One thing I don't hear though, is the still-falling rain.


	2. Chapter 2-Golden

**This one-shot will be more focused on Cassidy's father. Disclaimer: I don't own the MDBC/its contents, Heather Vogel Frederick does. **

**Golden**

**Chloe's POV**

My older sister Cassidy stands at the front door. She's twenty-six and standing happily next to my Uncle Tristan, whereas I'm just a little kid of thirteen years old. The same age she was when I was born: not old enough to do anything fun, like stay up late or go to the mall alone, but just old enough to sit around and do boring, these-will-make-you-mature jobs like homework. And opening doors for anyone in need of a chauffeur like me.

I see Uncle Tristan wink at me with one of his dark midnight-blue eyes that I'm so jealous of, so I simply unlock the door, and he makes a big deal out of opening it for his wife, my sister, Cassidy Sloane. Cassidy's around five months pregnant (or is it six? I always forget) and Uncle Tristan worked out a deal with me where I let him do stuff for her.

I hope the baby is a girl, because it would be great to have a close cousin to have fun with, like a little sister. Cass and Courtney are great, but they're both married and are really busy all the time. I have some female cousins, though. Megan Berkeley (formerly Wong) is Cassidy's sister-in-law, and has twin daughters named Grace and Hannah. They're my age, so we're in the same grade, but we're not related by blood and it's not the same as having a sister that lives with you.

Cassidy stumbles into the living room and to the mantle. She smiles sadly and picks up her favorite photo, the one of her dad. He was named David Sloane, the stepfather that I never got to know. My birth dad is Stanley Kinkaid, who Mom married after her first husband died. Cassidy still goes to the graveyard all the time, and Courtney's been going with her for at least ten years.

Most people would find this creepy, but I don't. Cassidy and Courtney's dad is buried in a cemetery in California, where we used to live (I wasn't born yet, and Mom didn't know Stanley) but Cassidy just goes to the local graves, even though he isn't there. I go with them sometimes, when school and hockey don't interfere.

"Chicks with Sticks" has become a big hit in Concord, and they've had a girls' team at our school for years now. I'm not that good as hockey, not nearly as good as Cassidy is, but I'm still okay at it.

Cassidy and Courtney, along with our mom, Clementine all say that Dad would've adored me. I really wish I could have met him. I've seen pictures of him with everyone in our family, though, and his soft grey eyes and intense red hair match up with Cassidy's features perfectly.

The picture is back on the mantel now, and its silvery frame glints in the sunlight from the nearby window. It's the photograph Cassidy took a few weeks before the accident, when her Dad was still alive. They went to the beach (we lived in Cali at the time, remember?) and it turned into magic hour, which is what her dad called it when the sun got all soft and golden every day, and the lighting was perfect.

They're laughing, with the beach in the background, and Cassidy's long, tangled red hair is blowing in the wind like ripples in a pond. I see Cassidy smile weakly at the memory and wipe away a tear on her cheek.

"I wish…I wish my dad could've met so many people. I want him to know about the Chadwicks and the Hawthornes and the Wongs, and especially the Sloane-Kinkaids and the Berkeleys. I know he would've loved you, Chloe, and you too, Tris." She says, whispering.

Cass and Uncle Tristan spend a few hours over at our house picking up things for their apartment, but their eyes keep flickering over to the mantel. I wish I could've met her dad. My dad, Stanley Kinkaid, is extremely nice, with crinkly eyes and a great sense of humor, but it's still like I'm missing out on a part of her life.

As the sun sets into magic hour once again, I pull out the camera Uncle Tristan gave me for my thirteenth birthday a few months ago and take a few shots of the outside. It'll never compare to Cassidy's photo, but it's something, at least.

**Sorry this has taken so long; I've had **_**terrible**_** writer's block lately. Should I continue **_**It Rains Every Day**_** (first one-shot)? Say what you think in the reviews, thanks a million!**


	3. Chapter 3-It Rains Every Day pt2

**After lots of debating, I finally decided to keep continuing It Rains Every Day, even though it kind of kills the whole purpose of a one-shot. Oh, well! Disclaimer: MDBC, content, and its characters belong to Heather Vogel Frederick. **

**Jess's POV**

It Rains Every Day

I'm aware that he and I are standing face-to-face on an empty sidewalk with no cars driving down the street. Suddenly, I'm conscious of every detail around me, every little, insignificant thing would never be seen.

Unless someone took the time to notice grungy brown-and-grey color scheme of the bricks on the stores or the crack full of black rock-dust and greying pebbles in the sidewalk, nobody would pick up on it. Of course, I do, because being around Darcy is awkward enough, and I don't want to see the expression on his face. I half-hope he's not looking at me, and the other part of me wishes like crazy.

While I observe the absence of a sun in the sky, it comes to me that the rain isn't so bad after all. I don't particularly love it, but it's refreshing, at least. The gentle dewdrops flitter down and cover me.

"So, are you going to keep standing, or should I make you sit down?" Darcy asks out of the blue. I blush, like I did when I first started liking him. The only thing that keeps me from laughing is the awkwardness of the situation.

My ex-boyfriend, my first and only boyfriend, just popped up six months after we broke up, and I'm dying to apologize but I don't want to say the wrong words and hurt us even more than I already have.

I sigh and weakly mouthe "I'll sit", too nervous to say anything, and Darcy looks away. I think I see him smile, but I can't tell. The whisper-speak is something we used to do back when we were dating, when we didn't need to speak. I miss it.

Parked near the bookstore I'm in front of is a furnished wooden bench, covered with streaky raindrop marks and easily big enough for three or four people. I dismiss my anxiety and sit down. Darcy looks around with his big brown eyes, like somebody's hunting him down, and sits down next to me.

My head is already reciting the apology I wrote him after the break-up set in. It wasn't a real thing that I set out to do, the words just started fitting into place. It's the feeling Emma gets when she writes, that the work was meant to exist and she doesn't need to force the words; they just come together, intricate and detailed, but true.

Darcy is on my right, and I want to face him and talk to him about everything I have bottled up inside of the, even though I don't. Fear is rippling through me like a white surrender flag on a battlefield. Should I be this stiff and afraid at a reunion meeting with my ex? I hope not.

If Darce went from Dartmouth to Juilliard and even met up with me here, I might as well not take it for granted. I've done that in the past, and look where it got me. Lost, bewildered, and confused instead of happy and content.

Mustering up all my courage, I talk to Darcy. I really, really hope it doesn't become one of those moments where I wish life had an undo button. I've gone through plenty of that during the last six months: thinking about my outcomes with him, had I acted, spoken, or thought differently.

"Hi." It's simple and casual, in a soft, trembling voice that I never thought I'd go through again, ever since my mother returned from New York. Fear is paralyzing, and it's like you're being electroshocked by it constantly. I've been so scared and alone this semester that I've hardly said a word to anybody other than my Concord friends.

Of course, I really don't know anybody at Juilliard, so that means mute. Yes, I know my classmates. I know their names and we're friendly towards each other, but it's not like we go to movies and parties, or study together, and things like that. I used to have that kind of fun with Emma, Cassidy, Megan, and even Becca and Sophie.

When Darcy doesn't reply for a few moments, I fluster extremely, inwardly, silently. My nervous fingers fumble and probe for the left part of my neck. I take my pulse. Is it too fast? Is it supposed to be this fast? I don't know. I just picked it up. The pulse-thing, I mean. I feel the beat quicken. I try to take deep breaths. To calm down. It isn't working. I mope over Darcy. Like I have been. For the last six months. Rain lands on my extended arm. I brush the drops away with my too-long sleeve.

I just don't know what to do. Life doesn't have guidelines for these situations. I wish it did. Darcy probably hates me. It's all my fault. The silence pounds like a boulder on me. I can't take the pressure. I know I'm seen as this perfect, happy, fairytale girl by some, but inside I'm crashing down. They see the good grades and the blonde hair and the scholarship to Juilliard, but there's a lot they don't see, too.

"You okay?" He finally asks, and I feel the pressure and internal stress dissolve away into a watery mess. I'm pretty sure I'm shaking and shuddering by now, but I don't notice. This doesn't feel like life. It feels like some dream, where I don't wake up.

An overwhelming wave of mixed emotions, scattered like sand on the seashore, comes right at me and hits head-on. Rain pours perpetually, and I'm pretty sure I look like a mess right now.

"Y-yeah. I'm fine. Just a little cold. And wet."

If I had known it would rain today, I would've brought a thicker jacket. The one I have on now is simply for aesthetics; its material is delicate and not durable in the least. I am left with no real protection on a rainy New York day.

Darcy takes off his navy blue jacket and drapes it over my arms with a soft smile. I really miss that smile. _Foolish, stupid girl,_ I chide. _Why'd you ever let go of him?_

But the taunt is quieter and my voice feels louder, because he's here.

"Thanks."

"No problem. It's the least I could do for you."

"Pay you back?"

"You don't have to."

"But I _want_ to."

"If you say so."

I put on his jacket, and, with a flourish, we get into his car. I take the wheel. The rain pelts Darcy's windshield at first, but it quickly vanishes as I keep driving. This is nice.

I'm pretty glad I missed my bus after all.


	4. Chapter 4-Mystery

**AU where Darcy's more dark, protective, and rebellious and Emma's quieter and more innocent. Stewart and Emma meet in the newspaper room. **

**Disclaimer: MDBC, content, and its characters belong to Heather Vogel Frederick. **

Mystery

**Stewart's POV**

I look across the room, past the many bookshelves of articles and walls of printed newspapers at the new girl at our weekly newspaper meeting, the first one of the school year. I haven't seen her anywhere before, especially not here.

She seems familiar, though, with short, characteristic brown hair, coiled perfectly, and soft chocolate eyes tucked behind glasses like the ones perched on my nose. Have I met or even noticed this mystery girl? It's like we knew each other in a past life.

Maybe my sister Becca knows her. Are they in the same grade? I honestly have no clue, but it could be true. Maybe the girl's a year younger than me, and a year older than Becca, or she's in my grade, or maybe she's new to Concord. Anything is possible. Whatever her age, I feel a need to know more about the mystery that just showed up at our newspaper meeting.

Whoever she is, this girl doesn't acknowledge me in the least, which half-pleases but half-disappoints me at the same time. I kind of want her to look at me, and I'd look at her if it wasn't so awkward.

Then again, she probably wants to be left alone, and I don't want her stalking me. Not that she would, because I'm not too popular.

Our regular teacher isn't here because of a journalism-related trip to Washington DC, so there's a substitute today. I think his name is Mr. Crandall? Perhaps that's the name. Anyway, he's very sociable and kind, much unlike some of the subs I've had.

He takes a clipboard, covered with pages of notes and messages about messages and articles, and begins to announce assignments for the new paper.

"Chadwick?" Mr. Crandall says loudly, over the buzz of chitchatting girls and boys present at the meeting.

"Yes?" I see his eyes glaze over the room as Becca and I both perk up and speak simultaneously. I wonder which one of has gotten their first assignment of the year.

"Sorry, _which _Chadwick?" I sheepishly ask. "There are two."

Mr. Crandall smiles sympathetically and says, "I'm looking for _Rebecca _Chadwick. Sorry for any confusion I may have caused."

My sister casually pulls a strand of golden hair away from her face, twirls it around her finger gingerly, and says, "I'm Becca Chadwick," in her most sophisticated, profound voice, the one I've heard as she practices dozens of times in front of the bathroom mirror at home.

"Okay, Becca, you're going to be working with Thomas Vanderbilt on an article about the possible adoption of school uniforms here at this fine school. They're still weighing the pros and cons, so we need a persuasive article, around five hundred words, giving a definite yes or no." Mr. Crandall says, smiling.

I inwardly laugh at Becca's face when Mr. Crandall says 'five hundred words', like it's a foreign language or an ancient code. Becca's not too smart, and she doesn't care about her grades at all. The best grade she has in a curricular class is a 73 in science. I don't understand how we're related sometimes. Okay, maybe all the time.

Becca's world is filled with her Fab Four friends, shopping for just about anything, going to the mall, and boys. Plenty of boys. Mustn't forget the infamous Zach Norton or the strange, annoying Third Bartlett (or Cranfield Bartlett III, whatever floats her boat). And don't, at all costs, leave out Darcy Hawthorne. If only she knew what he was like at school.

Thomas and Becca meet and begin to plan the article: who's going to edit, take photos, interview, and all that jazz. I can already tell that Becca's trying to act innocent and naïve in front of her partner, because she won't stop fluttering her thick Maybelline lashes and puckering her lips slightly, like an immature rosebud would.

Meanwhile, Mr. Crandall continuously calls out varying assignments throughout the class, and the pairs and triplets of students clan together and start scheduling everything to do with the article.

For some reason, I haven't been assigned to anything yet, and this agitates me greatly.

After our substitute finishes talking, he flicks a nervous glance over to me and to mystery girl.

"Are you sure I didn't call your name?"

"Positive." I reply instantly. The girl next to me hesitates, then nods once quickly.

Mr. Crandall looks over the list twice, squinting at its pages as if it holds the meaning of life, and traces his finger down the paper multiple times. He murmurs students' names under his breath and is surprised when he manages to match every person's name to their face.

"I don't really know why, but it seems that you two haven't been assigned to anything. Normally I'd ask your regular teacher, but I hear there's a huge convention today for the New England schools and I wouldn't want to interrupt anything important." Mr. Crandall's words leave me bewildered.

"So, um, what do we do until then?" The girl's voice shocks me because she hasn't spoken once this meeting. It's soft and whispery, just the way I'd imagined it, like the color of wind.

"Um…just get to know each other and be ready for any articles later on." This surprises me, because it's such a simple solution for such a complicated class. However, I'm not complaining. In fact, I'm eager to get to know the new girl. If she's new, that is. You never know.

From what I'm picking up, this girl is pretty quiet. As a fellow shy person, I can relate well. I know that somebody has to make the first step, otherwise the journey never starts.

_Okay, okay, keep it simple, Chadwick. Contained. Reserved. Casual. Stay casual. Don't be overeager. Be simple. Relaxed. Calm. Serene. Be cool. I am cool. _

_Then again, don't be a total airhead. Be intellectual, but not too much. Not too simple that she thinks you're a total Neanderthal, but not too bookish, either. _

"H-hi." I'm relieved to hear that my voice doesn't change to an unpleasant crack at the end. "I'm Stewart Chadwick. What's your name?"

"Me?" The girl says in the same tone as before.

"Yes, you." I reply, smiling.

Mystery girl tenderly pushes her glasses up with one finger and says, "Nice to meet you. I'm Emma, Emma Hawthorne."

I'm sure a scared, deer-in-the-headlights look begins to replace my friendly expression, because Emma (I still can't believe I know her name) leans in, frowns, and says, "Um, is anything wrong?"

One long gulp after the other passes down my throat and I hurriedly say, "Quick, off-topic question. Are you an only child?"

"No, I have a brother. What about you, Stewart?"

"One sister. Becca Chadwick."

"You're Becca's_ brother_?! How?"

"I still don't understand how we're related."

"Figures, who _would_?"

Illusions race through my mind. It couldn't be. She couldn't be. It's just not possible. Is it? I have no clue. There's no way it could be true.

"Okay, another random question. Any relation to Darcy Hawthorne?"

I'm faking a smile, but inside I'm bracing for impact. She certainly looks enough like him, with the same curly brown hair and chocolate-colored brown eyes, to be his sister or cousin or something. I'm hoping for cousin, as in distant cousin, like twice-removed or something, or for no relation at all. This girl is too nice to have anything to do with _that_ guy.

Before you judge me for, well, judging Darcy, let me just defend myself by saying that Darcy's dangerous. He's the terror of the grade. The kind of person that plays by their own rules, and finds it normal to always skip class or come in late, or unprepared. If I picked a single work to describe Darcy Hawthorne, I'd say he was…uncontrolled.

And to have this tame girl, this serene, shy, innocent little thing be his relative? I bet Becca and I have more in common! So, I cross my fingers tightly. And my toes. And my legs. I need some luck; and if Emma's his relative, so does she.

Emma leans forward, looks to the left and right like a little girl telling a secret, and groans. She admits it. "He's my older brother."

And with those four simple words, everything changes. Things have taken a turn for the worse. It'll be hard to get to know Emma without having to get to know Darcy, and I bet word will spread over at their house. As much as I like Emma, I can't stand Darcy. We're two different kinds of people. He's wild and crazy, just so frustratingly fast, the person who'd do anything to run faster or jump higher or tackle harder, and I'm not.

I'm quiet. I like literature and poems and, well, feminine things like cooking and cleaning and working. I'm a worker bee kind of person. Darcy's more like a queen bee. Buzz, buzz, buzz. Looks like there'll be trouble at the hive.


	5. Author's Note

Sorry I haven't updated for SO LONG, but then again, nobody else has too I'm hard at work on Those Memories and It Rains Every Day, so updates will come soon!

Here are a list of prompts that I'd like to make into one-shots, so please comment in the reviews about which ones you'd rather see. Most of them are mostly suited for Dess/Jarcy, though.

Their daughter gets their "time of the month" when Mom isn't home.

It's Bring Your Kids To Work Day and everyone thinks the kids are adorable.

The couple goes on vacation (maybe they go with 1 or more other couples).

The girl is pregnant and has all the signs (cravings, morning sickness, etc.) but the guy is clueless.

The guy does the girl's makeup.


	6. Chapter 5-Dartmouth

**Basically, Jess and Darcy take their two kids to Dartmouth on a Saturday to see the campus and grade, and all of the students think they're adorable. Lydia and Michael are my own OCs, but Jess and Darcy are owned by Heather Vogel Frederick. **

Michael Lucas Hawthorne-5, blonde hair, blue eyes, older.

Lydia Elizabeth Hawthorne-4, brown, curly hair, brown eyes, younger.

**Dartmouth**

**Jess's POV**

The first thing I see when I wake up is my daughter Lydia's blue eyes staring into mine. I sigh deeply. Last night was excruciating; I stayed up until midnight grading homework and reports with Darcy and still didn't finish. Because Darcy could sleep through a hurricane and a volcanic explosion without stirring, and I could wake up after a snowfall, I have to be the parent to talk.

"Lydia Elizabeth Hawthorne, what are you doing? It's seven in the morning on a Saturday." I say, half-asleep and disgruntled. Even though I should be distressed that my four-year-old daughter has disrupted my sleep cycle, I'm not.

"Michael told me about jobs!" Lydia says (or rather, screams) of my five-year-old son, the elder of the Hawthorne children. It's amazing how enthusiastic children can be at seven AM, especially if they're _yours_.

"Uh-huh?" I groggily, questionably reply, not sure of where the conversation is going.

"And a job is a thing someone does." Lydia proudly exclaims. It's a pretty accurate explanation for a four-year-old, and I smile widely.

"That's right, baby. Anything else?" I ask my daughter, hoping that she's done with the speech and I can go back to sleep. Unfortunately, she gives a swift nod.

"So what's Daddy's job? And yours?" Lydia asks, full of childlike innocence. I laugh, knowing that she'd naturally ask about her dad before me. A born daddy's girl, Lydia's always been like that.

"Hm…I don't know." I answer; though I know what Darcy's done and wanted to do for longer than Lydia's been born. "Maybe we better _ask_ Daddy." I say while nudging my still-sleeping husband.

"…mmm…no, Jess, not that…book…" Darcy smiles in his sleep and I laugh. He's sleep-talking again. "Darce…Darce! Wake up." I say louder, in his direction. Finally, Darcy stirs and I feel accomplished.

"Morning, Elizabeth. How'd you sleep?" Darcy insists on saying this every morning. Also, he calls me Elizabeth because of the Pride and Prejudice connection and because it's my middle name, just like it is Lydia's.

For what has to be the millionth time this morning, I laugh. "Lydia wants to know what your job is. And mine."

Darcy reaches out and Lydia jumps into his arms as she's taken from my side to his side of the bed. "You know that Mommy and I are both teachers, right?" Lydia delivers a gap-toothed smile and nods assuredly. "We're professors at Dartmouth College."

"Where's that?" Lydia ponders with wide eyes. I take her out of Darcy's arms and put her in between us, kissing her head as I do. "It's in New Hampshire." I reply. "It's pretty close to where we live." Darcy and I live near a bus station that can easily take us to Dartmouth, so the trip isn't too much of a struggle.

Lydia asks, yet again, "What do you teach?" Like both of her parents, she's as curious as Alice in Wonderland. Darcy answers for both of us. "Mom teaches science and helps with the choir. I teach history and coach football."

"Can I go?" Lydia asks at last. "Michael wants to!"

Darcy breaks into a chuckle. "Honey, it's Saturday. Saturday morning, I might add."

Like her father, Lydia is insistent. "Please, Daddy? Please, Mommy? Please?"

I flick a careful glance over to Darcy. "Well, I do need to finish grading, and you have to grade tests. I suppose we could go today and see the campus with Lydia and Michael."

He pretends to consider the options for a while, complete with a fake beard stroke, just for suspense. "Sounds like a plan." Darcy says after what seems like an eternity, with a grin wide as the Louisville Arch.

Stretching and yawning, I get out of bed and combat my terrible bedhead with a long blonde braid to hide the tangles. I choose to wear a plain, white lace blouse with a black, formal jacket and a red, flowery necklace. Along with that, I choose grey, salt-and-pepper jeans and red pumps. At my height, I need all the help I can get. Adding concealer and faint red lipstick, it occurs to me how much easier Darcy's life must be.

He wears a white dress shirt, a black tie, and a black blazer with black dress shoes and socks. I am envious of such a simple style, but at the same time, I can't imagine not being able to have this much fun with fashion. My inner Megan is showing.

We decide to take the car because it'll be hard to get a bus on a Saturday, so I take my purse, oversized college bag with students' papers inside, and Michael. Darcy carries Lydia on his shoulder and his old-fashioned black tote bag. After putting Lydia and Michael into their car seats, we take off. Road trips are especially fascinating to them. My job is to watch the kids, and Darcy's is to drive.

After a quick trip, because nobody but our family would drive to school on a Saturday, we park in one of the many available parking spots and walk inside of the building. Luckily, Darcy and I were assigned classrooms across from each other, so it saves us the long journey we would otherwise take.

Because his classroom is larger, we decide to stay in Darcy's room. I post a sign on my door saying that I'll be in the nearby room. Today, Dartmouth is crawling with students trying to study a bit for the upcoming finals.

While I grade at a student desk near the front of the classroom, Darcy sits at his professor's desk and does the same. It's obvious that, as much as he loves his job, he'd rather be with his children or wife. Lydia and Michael sit behind me playing with a coloring book.

"Professor Hawthorne?" asks a student's voice outside of the room, and Darcy and I both answer "Yes?" This causes us to simultaneously burst into laughter.

"Um..Mrs. Hawthorne?" Though the students are supposed to address their professors are "Professor", the rules have change for Darcy and me, because we share the same surname.

I recognize the short brunette girl who walks in as Ella, one of my best students. She's majoring in chemistry and it's clear that she has a passion for it. "Come on in, Ella." I warmly respond.

"Oh, I just had a question about this assignment, on question sevente…AWW! Who are these angels?" Ella interrupts herself.

Did I mention that Ella has a soft spot for children, animals, and anything small and cute? She reminds me of eighteen-year-old me.

"Ella, this is my son Michael," I say, gesturing to my adorable, blonde-haired son. "And this is my daughter Lydia."

Darcy walks over to me, tugging both my braid and Lydia's as he greets Ella. Her eyes glint and I see a subtle half-smile creep up the left side of her face. I can tell Ella is conjuring up an idea the way a wizard performs a spell.

After a brief moment of silence mixed with children's laughter, Ella casually says, "If you need a babysitter anytime, I'm _always_ available."

Michael and Lydia glance up at me with widened eyes like flickering lanterns. Darcy looks at me as well, since I teach less than he does and come home at noon to pick the kids up from pre-school, and Ella smiles expectantly.

I would've cracked under the pressure ten years ago, but people change a lot in a decade. I burst out laughing and explain that it's awkward with everyone staring at me in between giggles.

"That sounds great, Ella! And, if it's alright, could I refer you to my sister-in-law and some of my other friends? They've been looking for babysitters, and I think you'd love working for them."

"Speaking of other friends…" Ella carries on, "Could I bring in some of my friends to meet Lydia and Michael? They just love kids, and they could come here and just visit."

Darcy diverts his gaze to meet mine and I shrug nonchalantly. "Sounds good, just keep it quiet since Eliz-er…Jess and I, are both grading." He says with a soft voice. My husband picks Lydia up and ruffles her matching brown curls.

I mentally facepalm at the nickname and hope Ella doesn't notice. There's a family history of confusion because "Elizabeth" isn't a common nickname to have. Darcy's dad used to call his mother Elizabeth instead of Phoebe when they were dating, and at first, she thought he was cheating on her.

Smiling, Ella scampers out of the room and says she'll be right back. Darcy and I nod and go back to our grading headquarters. We continually switch stacks of papers to not become too bored with our work. Soon after, Ella rushes back in with two blonde girls and a black-haired friend I identify as Marie, another student of mine.

The two blondes, apparently, are Leslie and Jennifer and are students in Darcy's history class. The four girls take turns adoring Lydia and Michael.

"I knew you had kids from the pictures on your desk, but I didn't know they were this adorable!" squeals Jennifer as she hugs Michael.

Leslie takes selfies with Lydia and Michael on her new iPhone 8. Michael doesn't know how to pose, but Lydia's adorable. Confused, they stare up at Leslie as the camera clicks again and again.

Marie does quick pencil sketches of Lydia. With every swift stroke of my navy blue ballpoint pen, the drawing looks more like my daughter. Along with taking Darcy's European history class, she's also taking multiple art classes here on campus. I learn that Marie is majoring in art history. When she finishes the picture, I gasp. Marie shyly looks to the ground, signing with a flourish and handing the picture to Lydia. "Wow. You have talent." I breathlessly say.

"Um…you know, if you ever need babysitters…" hints Leslie. I laugh and say, "Nice try, but Ella already ask. I can never have enough babysitters, and neither can my friends and their kids. Would it be alright if I referred you to them?"

Marie and Jennifer quickly pounce in and say that they'd like babysitting jobs as well. "Don't worry, you'll all be considered. If I ever need somebody to watch either of these two, you'll be the first people I'll call." I promise.

Sadly, it comes time for Ella, Leslie, Jennifer, and Marie to leave. They bid farewell to Lydia and Michael and head back grudgingly.

Turning back to my desk, I ponder why spending time with people is so much more exciting than spending time with papers that they spent time on themselves. Before my train of thought gets too long, I curb the process and just focus on grading.

At the same time, I watch Lydia and Michael, who are busy watching a cartoon playing on the classroom television.

Darcy nudges me. "Ready to switch?" he asks.

"Sure, but isn't it a bit early?" I question.

He rolls his eyes and insists on trading papers "before we forget".

When I finish grading somebody's report on the French Revolution, I see the one directly underneath is a scrawled mess of bad handwriting and smeared ink. Unlike the others, it's handwritten, which was clearly a bad choice.

"You tricked me!" I jokingly accuse. "This is unacceptable. Completely and utterly unacceptable. What a terrible wrongdoing! Making your poor, exhausted wife grade this chicken scratch while you sit on your high horse and grade simple chemistry essays."

"First of all," Darcy says between laughs, "I got away with it. Please congratulate me on tricking the trickster."

"Excuse me?" My eyes widen and I raise an eyebrow questioningly.

"Second of all, the French Revolution is a lot easier to grade than chemistry essays on naming chemical bonds. At least there was logic involved in the French Revolution."

"Not true." I debate. "Chemistry is black and white, right and wrong. The French Revolution is full of factors like colonization, the royal monarchs, multiple unfair laws to the French citizens, and more." I say, counting on my fingers.

"Yes, but the citizens revolted for a reason. Why is the chemical symbol for potassium K? There is no K in the word potassium. There isn't even a C, a more common letter."

Darcy gets up for a moment to switch red pens. The kids have been too mesmerized watching TV to even notice a second of our play fight.

I sigh and smile simultaneously. "It's because of a Greek connection to potassium or something like that. It doesn't matter; I don't remember."

"Aha!" gasps Darcy. "Topic changer!"

"I may be a topic changer, but I bet I'm farther in my grading that you are." I respond.

"Absolutely not true, dear Elizabeth. You're farther in _my_ grading." Darcy applies a bit of the English accent he acquired that year in Bath.

"Also not true, dear Fitzwilliam. I switched the papers again when you got up to switch your pen."

"Can I help it if my red pen ran out of ink?" Darcy grumbles. "And, this is what I meant by 'tricking the trickster.' You're clever, Jess."

"I may be clever, but I'm yours." I say, winking.

"Yes, you are." Darcy says, taking my arm, lifting it along with his, and spinning me around like a ballerina. "Even if you are too busy with potassium and phosphorus to help little old me."

I laugh, looking up at my husband. "Little? Old?! Excuse me, I'm only two years younger than you, and you're more than six feet tall. My goodness, you're at least a head and a half taller than I am. You tower over your children, who I hope don't grow extremely tall like their father. Any other thirty-three-year-old wouldn't call themselves little or old. "

"Whatever, Elizabeth." Darcy grins. "Will you actually help me grade French Revolution papers or are you going to sit there and fake fight with me?"

"Fine." I dramatically throw my hands up in the air. "If I finish early, I'll help you grade French Revolution papers."

Darcy tilts his head and thanks me bittersweetly. As the day runs on, I find that I greatly enjoy spending time with my family, as crazy as they are. Lydia and Michael receive repeated visits from various students. Darcy and I finish grading chemistry papers before French Revolution reports.

He glances over to me and fake pouts. "You promised."

My eyes rise and my smile follows. "Sure thing, Darce. Here, give me half of them."

Darcy, always the competitive one, institutes a contest of seeing who will finish grading first. Of course, this means we have to drop everything and count papers, so that we'll each have the same amount. Thankfully, there's an even number of leftover reports.

Armed with our red pens, Darcy and I begin grading our eight papers each as soon as the clock ticks 12:34. He finishes barely before I do, and I congratulate him awkwardly while Lydia and Michael, who have no idea what's going on, cheer.

The two of us proceed to pack up our bags stuffed with tediously graded assignments while Lydia and Michael try to help but can't. Darcy holds Michael's hand and walks with him towards the front door. I fumble with my purse straps and pick up Lydia. On the way out of Dartmouth, we see Ella in the library. We wave goodbye as a family and get into the car.

Opening the door of our silver station wagon, I buckle Michael and then Lydia into their car seats and sit in the passenger seat, checking my makeup in the mirror. Darcy rolls his eyes and rests his head on one hand.

"Ready for takeoff, Coco Chanel?" He says sassily.

I spin my head from right to left to face his and raise an eyebrow. "Oh, stop it. It's nothing compared to the time you spend on your hair."

"You don't need those chemicals on your face, Elizabeth." Darcy turns to face Lydia. "Remember, Lyd, you're beautiful without makeup and you don't need to wear it, just like your mom."

I pull a makeup-removing wipe out of my purse and rub my mouth until the lipstick has rubbed off. "Satisfied, Darce?"

"Extremely. You look gorgeous naturally."

And with that, we begin the drive home as a family. At every red light, Darcy pulls my braid.


End file.
